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Blaise Pascal The Provincial Letters The translation is that
of Rev. Dr. Thomas M’Crie D.D., Professor of Divinity, Edinburgh and was published
in New York by Robert Carter & Brothers, 1853. [Return
to book contents page] Letter IX
Paris, July
3, 1656 SIR, I shall use as little ceremony
with you as the worthy monk did with me when I saw him last. The moment he
perceived me, he came forward, with his eyes fixed on a book which he held in
his hand, and accosted me thus: “’Would you not be infinitely obliged to any
one who should open to you the gates of paradise? Would you not give millions
of gold to have a key by which you might gain admittance whenever you thought
proper? You need not be at such expense; here is one—here are a hundred for
much less money.’” At first I was at a loss to
know whether the good father was reading, or talking to me, but he soon put
the matter beyond doubt by adding: “These, sir, are the opening
words of a fine book, written by Father Barry of our Society; for I never
give you anything of my own.” “What book is it?” asked I. “Here is its title,” he
replied: “Paradise opened to Philagio, in a Hundred Devotions to the Mother
of God, easily practised.” “Indeed, father! and is each
of these easy devotions a sufficient passport to heaven?” “It is,” returned he. “Listen
to what follows: ‘The devotions to the Mother of God, which you will find in
this book, are so many celestial keys, which will open wide to you the gates
of paradise, provided you practise them’; and, accordingly, he says at the
conclusion, ‘that he is satisfied if you practise only one of them.’” “Pray, then, father, do teach
me one of the easiest of them.” “They are all easy,” he
replied, “for example—‘Saluting the Holy Virgin when you happen to meet her
image—saying the little chaplet of the pleasures of the Virgin—fervently
pronouncing the name of Mary—commissioning the angels to bow to her for
us—wishing to build her as many churches as all the monarchs on earth have
done—bidding her good morrow every morning, and good night in the
evening—saying the Ave Maria every day, in honour of the heart of Mary’—which
last devotion, he says, possesses the additional virtue of securing us the
heart of the Virgin.” “But, father,” said I, “only
provided we give her our own in return, I presume?” “That,” he replied, “is not
absolutely necessary, when a person is too much attached to the world. Hear
Father Barry: ‘Heart for heart would, no doubt, be highly proper; but yours
is rather too much attached to the world, too much bound up in the creature,
so that I dare not advise you to offer, at present, that poor little slave
which you call your heart.’ And so he contents himself with the Ave Maria
which he had prescribed.” “Why, this is extremely easy
work,” said I, “and I should really think that nobody will be damned after
that.” “Alas!” said the monk, “I see
you have no idea of the hardness of some people’s hearts. There are some,
sir, who would never engage to repeat, every day, even these simple words,
Good day, Good evening, just because such a practice would require some
exertion of memory. And, accordingly, it became necessary for Father Barry to
furnish them with expedients still easier, such as wearing a chaplet night
and day on the arm, in the form of a bracelet, or carrying about one’s person
a rosary, or an image of the Virgin. ‘And, tell me now,’ as Father Barry
says, ‘if I have not provided you with easy devotions to obtain the good
graces of Mary?’” “Extremely easy indeed,
father,” I observed. “Yes,” he said, “it is as much
as could possibly be done, and I think should be quite satisfactory. For he
must be a wretched creature indeed, who would not spare a single moment in
all his lifetime to put a chaplet on his arm, or a rosary in his pocket, and thus
secure his salvation; and that, too, with so much certainty that none who
have tried the experiment have ever found it to fail, in whatever way they
may have lived; though, let me add, we exhort people not to omit holy living.
Let me refer you to the example of this, given at p. 34; it is that of a
female who, while she practised daily the devotion of saluting the images of
the Virgin, spent all her days in mortal sin, and yet was saved after all, by
the merit of that single devotion.” “And how so?” cried I. “Our Saviour,” he replied,
“raised her up again, for the very purpose of showing it. So certain it is
that none can perish who practise any one of these devotions.” “My dear sir,” I observed, “I
am fully aware that the devotions to the Virgin are a powerful means of
salvation, and that the least of them, if flowing from the exercise of faith
and charity, as in the case of the saints who have practised them, are of
great merit; but to make persons believe that, by practising these without
reforming their wicked lives, they will be converted by them at the hour of
death, or that God will raise them up again, does appear calculated rather to
keep sinners going on in their evil courses, by deluding them with false
peace and foolhardy confidence, than to draw them off from sin by that
genuine conversion which grace alone can effect.” “What does it matter,” replied
the monk, “by what road we enter paradise, provided we do enter it? as our
famous Father Binet, formerly our Provincial, remarks on a similar subject,
in his excellent book, On the Mark of Predestination. ‘Be it by hook or by
crook,’ as he says, ‘what need we care, if we reach at last the celestial
city.’” “Granted,” said I; “but the
great question is if we will get there at all.” “The Virgin will be answerable
for that,” returned he; “so says Father Barry in the concluding lines of his
book: ‘If at the hour of death, the enemy should happen to put in some claim
upon you, and occasion disturbance in the little commonwealth of your
thoughts, you have only to say that Mary will answer for you, and that he
must make his application to her.’” “But, father, it might be
possible to puzzle you, were one disposed to push the question a little
further. Who, for example, has assured us that the Virgin will be answerable
in this case?” “Father Barry will be
answerable for her,” he replied. “’As for the profit and happiness to be
derived from these devotions,’ he says, ‘I will be answerable for that; I
will stand bail for the good Mother.’” “But, father, who is to be
answerable for Father Barry?” “How!” cried the monk; “for
Father Barry? is he not a member of our Society; and do you need to be told
that our Society is answerable for all the books of its members? It is highly
necessary and important for you to know about this. There is an order in our
Society, by which all booksellers are prohibited from printing any work of
our fathers without the approbation of our divines and the permission of our
superiors. This regulation was passed by Henry III, 10th May 1583, and
confirmed by Henry IV, 20th December 1603, and by Louis XIII, 14th February
1612; so that the whole of our body stands responsible for the publications
of each of the brethren. This is a feature quite peculiar to our community.
And, in consequence of this, not a single work emanates from us which does
not breathe the spirit of the Society. That, sir, is a piece of information
quite apropos.” “My good father,” said I, “you
oblige me very much, and I only regret that I did not know this sooner, as it
will induce me to pay considerably more attention to your authors.” “I would have told you
sooner,” he replied, “had an opportunity offered; I hope, however, you will
profit by the information in future, and, in the meantime, let us prosecute
our subject. The methods of securing salvation which I have mentioned are, in
my opinion, very easy, very sure, and sufficiently numerous; but it was the
anxious wish of our doctors that people should not stop short at this first
step, where they only do what is absolutely necessary for salvation and
nothing more. Aspiring, as they do without ceasing, after the greater glory
of God, they sought to elevate men to a higher pitch of piety; and, as men of
the world are generally deterred from devotion by the strange ideas they have
been led to form of it by some people, we have deemed it of the highest
importance to remove this obstacle which meets us at the threshold. In this
department Father Le Moine has acquired much fame, by his work entitled
Devotion Made Easy, composed for this very purpose. The picture which he
draws of devotion in this work is perfectly charming. None ever understood
the subject before him. Only hear what he says in the beginning of his work:
‘Virtue has never as yet been seen aright; no portrait of her hitherto
produced, has borne the least verisimilitude. It is by no means surprising
that so few have attempted to scale her rocky eminence. She has been held up
as a cross-tempered dame, whose only delight is in solitude; she has been
associated with toil and sorrow; and, in short, represented as the foe of
sports and diversions, which are, in fact, the flowers of joy and the
seasoning of life.’” “But, father, I am sure, I
have heard, at least, that there have been great saints who led extremely austere
lives.” “No doubt of that,” he
replied; “but still, to use the language of the doctor, ‘there have always
been a number of genteel saints, and well-bred devotees’; and this difference
in their manners, mark you, arises entirely from a difference of humours. ‘I
am far from denying,’ says my author, ‘that there are devout persons to be
met with, pale and melancholy in their temperament, fond of silence and
retirement, with phlegm instead of blood in their veins, and with faces of
clay; but there are many others of a happier complexion, and who possess that
sweet and warm humour, that genial and rectified blood, which is the true
stuff that joy is made of.’ “You see,” resumed the monk,
“that the love of silence and retirement is not common to all devout people;
and that, as I was saying, this is the effect rather of their complexion than
their piety. Those austere manners to which you refer are, in fact, properly
the character of a savage and barbarian, and, accordingly, you will find them
ranked by Father Le Moine among the ridiculous and brutal manners of a moping
idiot. The following is the description he has drawn of one of these in the
seventh book of his Moral Pictures. ‘He has no eyes for the beauties of art
or nature. Were he to indulge in anything that gave him pleasure, he would
consider himself oppressed with a grievous load. On festival days, he retires
to hold fellowship with the dead. He delights in a grotto rather than a
palace, and prefers the stump of a tree to a throne. As to injuries and affronts,
he is as insensible to them as if he had the eyes and ears of a statue.
Honour and glory are idols with whom he has no acquaintance, and to whom he
has no incense to offer. To him a beautiful woman is no better than a
spectre; and those imperial and commanding looks—those charming tyrants who
hold so many slaves in willing and chainless servitude—have no more influence
over his optics than the sun over those of owls,’ &c.” “Reverend sir,” said I, “had
you not told me that Father Le Moine was the author of that description, I
declare I would have guessed it to be the production of some profane fellow
who had drawn it expressly with the view of turning the saints into ridicule.
For if that is not the picture of a man entirely denied to those feelings which
the Gospel obliges us to renounce, I confess that I know nothing of the
matter.” “You may now perceive, then,
the extent of your ignorance,” he replied; “for these are the features of a
feeble, uncultivated mind, ‘destitute of those virtuous and natural
affections which it ought to possess,’ as Father Le Moine says at the close
of that description. Such is his way of teaching ‘Christian virtue and
philosophy,’ as he announces in his advertisement; and, in truth, it cannot
be denied that this method of treating devotion is much more agreeable to the
taste of the world than the old way in which they went to work before our
times.” “There can be no comparison
between them,” was my reply, “and I now begin to hope that you will be as
good as your word.” “You will see that better
by-and-by,” returned the monk. “Hitherto I have only spoken of piety in
general, but, just to show you more in detail how our fathers have
disencumbered it of its toils and troubles, would it not be most consoling to
the ambitious to learn that they may maintain genuine devotion along with an
inordinate love of greatness?” “What, father! even though
they should run to the utmost excess of ambition?” “Yes,” he replied; “for this
would be only a venial sin, unless they sought after greatness in order to
offend God and injure the State more effectually. Now venial sins do not
preclude a man from being devout, as the greatest saints are not exempt from
them. ‘Ambition,’ says Escobar, ‘which consists in an inordinate appetite for
place and power, is of itself a venial sin; but when such dignities are
coveted for the purpose of hurting the commonwealth, or having more
opportunity to offend God, these adventitious circumstances render it
mortal.’” “Very savoury doctrine,
indeed, father.” “And is it not still more
savoury,” continued the monk, “for misers to be told, by the same authority,
‘that the rich are not guilty of mortal sin by refusing to give alms out of
their superfluity to the poor in the hour of their greatest need?—scio in
gravi pauperum necessitate divites non dando superflua, non peccare
mortaliter.’” “Why truly,” said I, “if that
be the case, I give up all pretension to skill in the science of sins.” “To make you still more
sensible of this,” returned he, “you have been accustomed to think, I
suppose, that a good opinion of one’s self, and a complacency in one’s own
works, is a most dangerous sin? Now, will you not be surprised if I can show
you that such a good opinion, even though there should be no foundation for
it, is so far from being a sin that it is, on the contrary, the gift of God?” “Is it possible, father?” “That it is,” said the monk;
“and our good Father Garasse shows it in his French work, entitled Summary of
the Capital Truths of Religion: ‘It is a result of commutative justice that
all honest labour should find its recompense either in praise or in
self-satisfaction. When men of good talents publish some excellent work, they
are justly remunerated by public applause. But when a man of weak parts has
wrought hard at some worthless production, and fails to obtain the praise of
the public, in order that his labour may not go without its reward, God
imparts to him a personal satisfaction, which it would be worse than
barbarous injustice to envy him. It is thus that God, who is infinitely just,
has given even to frogs a certain complacency in their own croaking.’” “Very fine decisions in favour
of vanity, ambition, and avarice!” cried I; “and envy, father, will it be
more difficult to find an excuse for it?” “That is a delicate point,” he
replied. “We require to make use here of Father Bauny’s distinction, which he
lays down in his Summary of Sins.—‘Envy of the spiritual good of our
neighbour is mortal but envy of his temporal good is only venial.’” “And why so, father?” “You shall hear, said he.
“’For the good that consists in temporal things is so slender, and so
insignificant in relation to heaven, that it is of no consideration in the
eyes of God and His saints.’” “But, father, if temporal good
is so slender, and of so little consideration, how do you come to permit
men’s lives to be taken away in order to preserve it?” “You mistake the matter
entirely,” returned the monk; “you were told that temporal good was of no
consideration in the eyes of God, but not in the eyes of men.” “That idea never occurred to
me,” I replied; “and now, it is to be hoped that, in virtue of these same
distinctions, the world will get rid of mortal sins altogether.” “Do not flatter yourself with
that,” said the father; “there are still such things as mortal sins—there is
sloth, for example.” “Nay, then, father dear!” I
exclaimed, “after that, farewell to all ‘the joys of life!’” “Stay,” said the monk, “when
you have heard Escobar’s definition of that vice, you will perhaps change
your tone: ‘Sloth,’ he observes, ‘lies in grieving that spiritual things are
spiritual, as if one should lament that the sacraments are the sources of
grace; which would be a mortal sin.’” “O my dear sir!” cried I, “I
don’t think that anybody ever took it into his head to be slothful in that
way.” “And accordingly,” he replied,
“Escobar afterwards remarks: ‘I must confess that it is very rarely that a
person falls into the sin of sloth.’ You see now how important it is to define
things properly?” “Yes, father, and this brings
to my mind your other definitions about assassinations, ambuscades, and
superfluities. But why have you not extended your method to all cases, and
given definitions of all vices in your way, so that people may no longer sin
in gratifying themselves?” “It is not always essential,”
he replied, “to accomplish that purpose by changing the definitions of
things. I may illustrate this by referring to the subject of good cheer,
which is accounted one of the greatest pleasures of life, and which Escobar
thus sanctions in his Practice according to our Society: ‘Is it allowable for
a person to eat and drink to repletion, unnecessarily, and solely for
pleasure? Certainly he may, according to Sanchez, provided he does not
thereby injure his health; because the natural appetite may be permitted to
enjoy its proper functions.’” “Well, father, that is
certainly the most complete passage, and the most finished maxim in the whole
of your moral system! What comfortable inferences may be drawn from it! Why,
and is gluttony, then, not even a venial sin?” “Not in the shape I have just
referred to,” he replied; “but, according to the same author, it would be a
venial sin ‘were a person to gorge himself, unnecessarily, with eating and
drinking, to such a degree as to produce vomiting.’ So much for that point. I
would now say a little about the facilities we have invented for avoiding sin
in worldly conversations and intrigues. One of the most embarrassing of these
cases is how to avoid telling lies, particularly when one is anxious to
induce a belief in what is false. In such cases, our doctrine of
equivocations has been found of admirable service, according to which, as
Sanchez has it, ‘it is permitted to use ambiguous terms, leading people to
understand them in another sense from that in which we understand them
ourselves.’” “I know that already, father,”
said I. “We have published it so
often,” continued he, “that at length, it seems, everybody knows of it. But
do you know what is to be done when no equivocal words can be got?” “No, father.” “I thought as much, said the
Jesuit; “this is something new, sir: I mean the doctrine of mental
reservations. ‘A man may swear,’ as Sanchez says in the same place, ‘that he
never did such a thing (though he actually did it), meaning within himself
that he did not do so on a certain day, or before he was born, or
understanding any other such circumstance, while the words which he employs
have no such sense as would discover his meaning. And this is very convenient
in many cases, and quite innocent, when necessary or conducive to one’s
health, honour, or advantage.’” “Indeed, father! is that not a
lie, and perjury to boot?” “No,” said the father;
“Sanchez and Filiutius prove that it is not; for, says the latter, ‘it is the
intention that determines the quality of the action.’ And he suggests a still
surer method for avoiding falsehood, which is this: After saying aloud, ‘I
swear that I have not done that,’ to add, in a low voice, ‘to-day’; or after
saying aloud, ‘I swear,’ to interpose in a whisper, ‘that I say,’ and then
continue aloud, ‘that I have done that.’ This, you perceive, is telling the
truth.” “I grant it,” said I; “it
might possibly, however, be found to be telling the truth in a low key, and
falsehood in a loud one; besides, I should be afraid that many people might
not have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves of these methods.” “Our doctors,” replied the
Jesuit, “have taught, in the same passage, for the benefit of such as might
not be expert in the use of these reservations, that no more is required of
them, to avoid lying, than simply to say that ‘they have not done’ what they
have done, provided ‘they have, in general, the intention of giving to their
language the sense which an able man would give to it.’ Be candid, now, and
confess if you have not often felt yourself embarrassed, in consequence of
not knowing this?” “Sometimes,” said I. “And will you not also
acknowledge,” continued he, “that it would often prove very convenient to be
absolved in conscience from keeping certain engagements one may have made?” “The most convenient thing in
the world!” I replied. “Listen, then, to the general
rule laid down by Escobar: ‘Promises are not binding, when the person in
making them had no intention to bind himself. Now, it seldom happens that any
have such an intention, unless when they confirm their promises by an oath or
contract; so that when one simply says, “I will do it,” he means that he will
do it if he does not change his mind; for he does not wish, by saying that,
to deprive himself of his liberty.’ He gives other rules in the same strain,
which you may consult for yourself, and tells us, in conclusion, ‘that all
this is taken from Molina and our other authors, and is therefore settled
beyond all doubt.’” “My dear father,” I observed,
“I had no idea that the direction of the intention possessed the power of
rendering promises null and void.” “You must perceive,” returned
he, “what facility this affords for prosecuting the business of life. But
what has given us the most trouble has been to regulate the commerce between
the sexes; our fathers being more chary in the matter of chastity. Not but
that they have discussed questions of a very curious and very indulgent
character, particularly in reference to married and betrothed persons.” At this stage of the
conversation I was made acquainted with the most extraordinary questions you
can well imagine. He gave me enough of them to fill many letters; but, as you
show my communications to all sorts of persons, and as I do not choose to be
the vehicle of such reading to those who would make it the subject of
diversion, I must decline even giving the quotations. The only thing to which I can
venture to allude, out of all the books which he showed me, and these in
French, too, is a passage which you will find in Father Bauny’s Summary, p.
165, relating to certain little familiarities, which, provided the intention
is well directed, he explains “as passing for gallant”; and you will be surprised
to find, on p. 148 a principle of morals, as to the power which daughters
have to dispose of their persons without the leave of their relatives,
couched in these terms: “When that is done with the consent of the daughter,
although the father may have reason to complain, it does not follow that she,
or the person to whom she has sacrificed her honour, has done him any wrong,
or violated the rules of justice in regard to him; for the daughter has
possession of her honour, as well as of her body, and can do what she pleases
with them, bating death or mutilation of her members.” Judge, from that
specimen, of the rest. It brings to my recollection a passage from a heathen
poet, a much better casuist, it would appear, than these reverend doctors;
for he says, “that the person of a daughter does not belong wholly to
herself, but partly to her father and partly to her mother, without whom she
cannot dispose of it, even in marriage.” And I am much mistaken if there is a
single judge in the land who would not lay down as law the very reverse of
this maxim of Father Bauny. This is all I dare tell you of
this part of our conversation, which lasted so long that I was obliged to
beseech the monk to change the subject. He did so and proceeded to entertain
me with their regulations about female attire. “We shall not speak,” he said,
“of those who are actuated by impure intentions; but, as to others, Escobar
remarks that ‘if the woman adorn herself without any evil intention, but
merely to gratify a natural inclination to vanity—ob naturalem fastus
inclinationem—this is only a venial sin, or rather no sin at all.’ And Father
Bauny maintains, that ‘even though the woman knows the bad effect which her
care in adorning her person may have upon the virtue of those who may behold
her, all decked out in rich and precious attire, she would not sin in so
dressing.’ And, among others, he cites our Father Sanchez as being of the
same mind.” “But, father, what do your
authors say to those passages of Scripture which so strongly denounce
everything of that sort?” “Lessius has well met that
objection,” said the monk, “by observing, ‘that these passages of Scripture
have the force of precepts only in regard to the women of that period, who
were expected to exhibit, by their modest demeanour, an example of
edification to the Pagans.’” “And where did he find that,
father”? “It does not matter where he
found it,” replied he; “it is enough to know that the sentiments of these
great men are always probable of themselves. It deserves to be noticed,
however, that Father Le Moine has qualified this general permission; for he
will on no account allow it to be extended to the old ladies. ‘Youth,’ he
observes, ‘is naturally entitled to adorn itself, nor can the use of ornament
be condemned at an age which is the flower and verdure of life. But there it
should be allowed to remain: it would be strangely out of season to seek for
roses on the snow. The stars alone have a right to be always dancing, for
they have the gift of perpetual youth. The wisest course in this matter,
therefore, for old women, would be to consult good sense and a good mirror,
to yield to decency and necessity, and to retire at the first approach of the
shades of night.’” “A most judicious advice,” I
observed. “But,” continued the monk,
“just to show you how careful our fathers are about everything you can think
of, I may mention that, after granting the ladies permission to gamble, and
foreseeing that, in many cases, this license would be of little avail unless they
had something to gamble with, they have established another maxim in their
favour, which will be found in Escobar’s chapter on larceny, no. 13: ‘A
wife,’ says he, ‘may gamble, and for this purpose may pilfer money from her
husband.’” “Well, father, that is
capital! “There are many other good
things besides that,” said the father; “but we must waive them and say a
little about those more important maxims, which facilitate the practice of
holy things—the manner of attending mass, for example. On this subject, our
great divines, Gaspard Hurtado and Coninck, have taught ‘that it is quite
sufficient to be present at mass in body, though we may be absent in spirit,
provided we maintain an outwardly respectful deportment.’ Vasquez goes a step
further, maintaining ‘that one fulfils the precept of hearing mass, even
though one should go with no such intention at all.’ All this is repeatedly
laid down by Escobar, who, in one passage, illustrates the point by the
example of those who are dragged to mass by force, and who put on a fixed
resolution not to listen to it.” “Truly, sir,” said I, “had any
other person told me that, I would not have believed it.” “In good sooth,” he replied,
“it requires all the support which the authority of these great names can
lend it; and so does the following maxim by the same Escobar, ‘that even a
wicked intention, such as that of ogling the women, joined to that of hearing
mass rightly, does not hinder a man from fulfilling the service.’ But another
very convenient device, suggested by our learned brother Turrian, is that
‘one may hear the half of a mass from one priest, and the other half from
another; and that it makes no difference though he should hear first the
conclusion of the one, and then the commencement of the other.’ I might also
mention that it has been decided by several of our doctors to be lawful ‘to
hear the two halves of a mass at the same time, from the lips of two
different priests, one of whom is commencing the mass, while the other is at
the elevation; it being quite possible to attend to both parties at once, and
two halves of a mass making a whole—duae medietates unam missam constituunt.’
‘From all which,’ says Escobar, ‘I conclude, that you may hear mass in a very
short period of time; if, for example, you should happen to hear four masses
going on at the same time, so arranged that when the first is at the
commencement, the second is at the gospel, the third at the consecration, and
the last at the communion.’” “Certainly, father, according
to that plan, one may hear mass any day at Notre Dame in a twinkling.” “Well,” replied he, “that just
shows how admirably we have succeeded in facilitating the hearing of mass.
But I am anxious now to show you how we have softened the use of the
sacraments, and particularly that of penance. It is here that the benignity
of our fathers shines in its truest splendour; and you will be really
astonished to find that devotion, a thing which the world is so much afraid
of, should have been treated by our doctors with such consummate skill that,
to use the words of Father Le Moine, in his Devotion Made Easy, demolishing
the bugbear which the devil had placed at its threshold, they have rendered
it easier than vice and more agreeable than pleasure; so that, in fact,
simply to live is incomparably more irksome than to live well. Is that not a
marvellous change, now?” “Indeed, father, I cannot help
telling you a bit of my mind: I am sadly afraid that you have overshot the
mark, and that this indulgence of yours will shock more people than it will
attract. The mass, for example, is a thing so grand and so holy that, in the
eyes of a great many, it would be enough to blast the credit of your doctors
forever to show them how you have spoken of it.” “With a certain class,”
replied the monk, “I allow that may be the case; but do you not know that we
accommodate ourselves to all sorts of persons? You seem to have lost all
recollection of what I have repeatedly told you on this point. The first time
you are at leisure, therefore, I propose that we make this the theme of our
conversation, deferring till then the lenitives we have introduced into the
confessional. I promise to make you understand it so well that you will never
forget it.” With these words we parted, so
that our next conversation, I presume, will turn on the policy of the
Society. I am, &c. P.S. Since
writing the above, I have seen Paradise Opened by a Hundred Devotions Easily
Practised, by Father Barry; and also the Mark of Predestination, by Father
Binet; both of them pieces well worth the seeing. |
Blaise Pascal |
